


Informed Consent

by ineffable_after_all



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asphyxiation, Background Castiel/Sam Winchester - Freeform, Coda, Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent, Episode: s11e22 We Happy Few, Face-Fucking, M/M, References to the Cage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffable_after_all/pseuds/ineffable_after_all
Summary: Lucifer is willing to sit down and talk things out with God, but he's sure as hell not going to do it for free.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 83





	Informed Consent

Sam does not like to be alone in a room with Lucifer. 

Honestly, he thought it wouldn’t bother him. He really had. It’s _his_ room, and the safety of the bunker is just outside the door. Lucifer isn’t his mortal enemy this time, for however long this fight against the Darkness is going to last. Sam has _power_ here; he’s not helpless, he could fight back if he needed to, and he might even _win._

It’s not the Cage. 

His brain doesn’t care. It _feels_ like the Cage. 

Lucifer is slouched against the far wall, fingertip trailing across the spinning record, making the music hiccup and scratch. He’d turned the volume down at least, but Sam’s ears are still ringing from how loud it’d been when he finally convinced Lucifer to open the damn door and let him in to talk. 

“Do you think you could turn that off?” Sam asks. 

“I could,” Lucifer allows, and makes no move to do any such thing. The music jumps again under his fingertip, and he looks up, smirking when he catches sight of Sam gritting his teeth. 

Castiel’s face looks wrong wearing Lucifer’s expressions. He’d never been that emotive, that mocking. Sam really doesn’t know how it took him so long to figure the possession out. 

“Look,” he says, biting back his annoyance, “you’re being ridiculous, you get that right? I’d expect this kind of attitude from a teenager, not _Lucifer_ himself.” 

Lucifer sighs, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. “And here I thought you might understand a little something about negligent fathers, Sam.” 

_Don’t rise to it,_ Sam coaches himself. “There’s bigger things going on than your family feud, don’t you think?” 

“Well, now that’s just hypocritical of you,” Lucifer says, tapping his temple with one skinny finger. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten all the juicy bits and pieces I saw in your brain. How many times did you and old John butt heads in the middle of a big showdown? More than _you_ can hope to remember, I’m sure, but if you’d like I can remind you. Help you relive the highlights and all.” 

Lucifer wiggles his fingers at him and Sam backs up a half step, bumping into the door before he can stop himself. The satisfied smile on Lucifer’s face tells him that he wasn’t nearly as subtle about that as he hoped, but he doesn’t come any closer. 

Sam breathes in. Holds it. Lets it out. “What will it take for you to just… sit down and talk to God?” 

Lucifer straightens up, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “Are you offering me a deal, Sam?” 

“No,” Sam says vehemently, skin crawling. “No, I just mean -” 

“What if _I_ offer _you_ a deal,” Lucifer says, silky smooth. 

Sam stares at him blankly. “For what?” 

“If you give me what I want, I’ll sit down and talk with dear old dad,” Lucifer says, stepping forward. His fingertips skate along the shelf holding the record player as he narrows the space between them in minute steps. “Can’t promise it’ll go over well, but I’ll do the family intervention routine if you ask.” 

Sam’s shoulders are pressed right up against the door behind him. One of the few good things about being Sam’s height is that he always manages to be taller than Lucifer, no matter the vessel he takes. He keeps his back straight and uses those scavenged few inches to look down at him as he approaches, feigning at calm. “And what’s your asking price? If you’re hoping I’ll say _yes_ then -” 

“No, no, of course not, Sam.” Lucifer stops in front of him, head tilted back to easily meet Sam’s eyes. His hands land on the door either side of Sam’s arms, boxing him in. “Well, not like that, anyway.” 

The buddying uneasiness in Sam’s gut flowers so abruptly that it makes his stomach turn. Panicked, he tries to bat aside Lucifer’s arms, but he hadn’t been able to overpower that body when Castiel had been in it, he certainly can’t manage it with a fucking archangel. Lucifer keeps Sam pinned to the door, one of his hands coming up to seize Sam’s chin, jerking his head down to look at him. 

“Now, Sam,” he admonishes, thumb swiping across Sam’s bottom lip. “That’s a bit rude. You’re gonna hurt my feelings.” 

“Screw you,” Sam spits. “If you think for even a second that I’m going to go along with this, then the Cage fried your brain worse than I thought.” 

Lucifer draws back a little, and the tiny sliver of space is enough that Sam finally manages to breathe again. “Don’t you think you're overreacting a bit?” he asks, as if Sam is the irrational one here. “It’s not like it’d be our first time, after all.” 

He says it in a sickly-sweet tone that doesn’t match the amused look in his eyes at all. Sam wants to break his neck so bad that he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of skin. “Don’t,” he warns. “Don’t talk about that.” 

It’d been the wrong thing to say. “Oh, what’s this? Are you,” he pitches his voice low, _“ashamed_ of me, Sam?” 

“Stop it,” Sam snaps. He tries to shove him away again, but Lucifer crowds in close, keeping him still. “That was -” 

“Different? You didn’t have a choice? Which of Sammy’s favorite excuses is it going to be tonight, huh?” 

Sam flushes. The back of his neck is sticky with sweat. He should never have come in this stupid fucking room. He should have sent Dean in. He’d forgotten - had _made_ himself forget - how easy it was for Lucifer to ruin him with only the callous quickness of his silver tongue alone. 

“I’m not doing this,” Sam says. “I’m not talking about this, and I’m not doing it.” 

“Doing what?” Lucifer says blithely. “We’re just having a conversation here, aren’t we? Or is there something else on your mind?” 

“Let me go,” Sam says. “You want to stay in here and sulk like a brat? Fine. I’m done talking to you.” 

He spins around in the cage of Lucifer’s arm, but before he can reach for the door handle a cold palm slams into the back of his neck, pushing him flat against the wood so hard that his cheek smarts from the pressure and the breath is knocked out of him. 

“You’re really being difficult, aren’t you?” Lucifer asks in Sam’s ear. “It’s just one little yes, Sammy. Not even the big one. After all -” 

_Cas is in there still,_ Sam thinks, realization hitting worse than the hands on skin. _He’s in there, and he could be listening to all of this._

“Don’t,” Sam chokes out. “Lucifer, don’t -” 

“- You said yes in the Cage, didn’t you?” Lucifer finishes, tone indulgent. His thumb strokes the top knot of Sam’s spine, chillingly familiar even if the hands behind the gesture are not. “Many, many times if I recall.” 

Sam closes his eyes. His heart is pounding sickly against his fragile ribcage. “That was different.” 

“Mmhm. Little Sammy’s favorite excuse. There it is. That didn’t take long at all.” 

“It was,” Sam insists. “What sane person is going to take being boiled alive over…” He fumbles. He’s never said it out loud. Not since he got back topside. 

Lucifer has no such compunctions. “Over being fucked by the devil?” he asks. “Really, Sam, if you can’t _say_ it, maybe you shouldn’t be _doing_ it.” 

“Fuck you,” Sam hisses with as much venom as he can muster. 

“Oh, gladly.” Lucifer’s hand drops from his neck, sweeping down his spine. “Shall I take that as your _yes,_ then?” 

“No!” Sam shoves himself away from the door and to his surprise Lucifer lets him, backing up so Sam can turn around to glare at him, pushing his hair out of his face with unsteady hands. “God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Lucifer grandly holds out his arms. “My name is Lucifer, you may have heard of me.” 

“I know you like to wind me up and watch me go -” 

“That’s not it.” Lucifer pauses. “Well, I _do_ like that, but I did mean what I said, Sam.” He turns his finger in the air and says, “You let me take you for one little roll in the hay and we’ll have an agreement. It’s not so hard, is it? Not something you haven’t done a hundred times before.” 

_“Why?”_ Sam asks, incredulous. 

Utterly unperturbed, Lucifer says, “Because I know you’ll say yes. You put on such a song and dance about your dignity and your pride, but I know you better than you know yourself, Sam, and if all it takes to get this anti-apocalypse party started is a little personal sacrifice on your behalf, then of course you’re going to roll over and think of England.” 

“So you want to _fuck me_ just because you know you can?” 

“Yes,” Lucifer says, and then adds, “and because it’s fun.” 

Sam’s not a crier. He never has been. Not as a kid, not even in the Cage. He kind of wants to cry now. “Just go talk to you _dad,_ holy fuck.” 

Lucifer turns around, leisurely crossing the room to drop down on the edge of the bed, folding his legs. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I will.” 

Sam stays exactly where he’s standing, staring at him like it’ll change anything at all about the self-indulgent smile on Lucifer’s face, creasing Castiel’s typical look of ambivalence into something amused and unkind. Lucifer raises his eyebrows, patting the empty sheets beside him in invitation. 

“If you want to fuck me so much, why don’t you just do it?” Sam asks. “It’s not like I’d be able to stop you, we both know that.” 

Lucifer sighs. “We’ve been over this, Sam,” he says, in the voice of a patient teacher. “Where’s the fun in that? I _could_ make you, yes, but I could make _you_ make _yourself,_ and honestly, that’s much more fun. Consent is sexy, and all that jazz.” 

“Having seen the way you go about possessing your vessels, I know your definition of consent is a little wonky, but this?” He points between them. “This isn’t consent. This is _blackmail.”_

“No, this is you wasting time dithering when we both know you’re going to say yes. Unless you’re saying you value your precious chastity over the millions of people that will die otherwise.” 

Sam grits his teeth. Lucifer’s right. Lucifer’s right, and that’s the worst fucking part. Maybe if he stood his ground, went out and got Dean and Chuck involved, he could wiggle out of this. Maybe there’s a way out of this situation that isn’t Sam reliving some of the worst moments of his life. 

Or maybe there isn’t, and instead Sam has to finally tell Dean the real reason he’s so ashamed of his time in the Cage. Maybe there isn’t and Sam lets the whole universe die because he was too stubborn to roll over and spread his legs. 

So long as the cost is solely Sam’s to bear, _of course_ he’s going to do this. 

But it’s not. Not this time. 

“What about Cas?” he makes himself ask. 

Lucifer doesn’t look impressed. “What about him?” 

“That’s _his_ body.” 

Lucifer pulls a face and makes a see-sawing motion with his hand. “Well…” 

Sam tamps down on his impatience. “You know what I mean.” 

Lucifer gives a put-upon sigh, leaning back on his hands. The bed creaks beneath him. “Shall I ask him?” 

Sam feels heat crawling up the back of his neck, quick and burning. “Don’t,” he blurts. 

It’s too late though, because Lucifer’s eyes glaze for a moment, and then when they clear he looks up, smile spreading like a shadow across his face. “Oh,” he purrs. “That’s interesting. They didn’t know, did they?” 

Sam wants to die. “Shut up.” 

“What about Dean?” Lucifer asks. “Does he know that you used to get on your knees and _beg_ me -” 

“Do not,” Sam hisses, “talk about my brother.” 

Lucifer looks like a cat with a delightful new toy. “You never did like it when I brought up his name in bed, did you?” 

‘Bed’ is a very generous descriptor for the unforgiving iron floor he used to fuck Sam into, scrapping his knees and elbows raw and bloody. “Lucifer, I swear -” 

“Your precious Cas gave his permission,” Lucifer says, waving away Sam’s empty threats. “I mean, he had some choice thoughts about your colorful past, but that’s something you two can look forward to discussing.” 

“If you’re lying -” 

“I don’t lie, you know that. Mislead? Certainly. Seduce? Occasionally. But I don’t lie.” Lucifer beckons Sam over, and reluctantly, Sam finally peels his frozen feet from the floor, approaching with cautious footsteps. “He’s almost as much of a martyr as you are, really. He should be grateful; he certainly never would have managed to get you on your knees with his own charms, would he?” 

Sam stops just before the bed, a few inches away from Lucifer’s spread knees. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I wonder,” Lucifer says vaguely. Then, “Did you not hear me before, Sam? On your knees.” 

Power slams into him, sending him to the floor hard enough that his head spins. It’s a miracle that his kneecaps don’t break as they hit the cement. He throws out his hands, grabbing Lucifer’s thighs to keep from toppling over, and looks up darkly and Lucifer's satisfied face. “I was getting there.” 

“If I had to do everything at your pace, we’d be here all day,” Lucifer says, reaching out to gently tuck Sam’s wayward hair behind his ear. _“I_ certainly wouldn’t mind, but something tells me you would.” 

Sam flinches away from the touch, but Lucifer’s hand slips behind his head, fisting in his hair to hold him in place and jerk him back. Sam grits his teeth against the sharp flare of pain but knows better than to fight it, shuffling forward and allowing Lucifer to direct him right between his spread legs. It is an unfortunately familiar position, and one he’d never hoped to find himself in again. 

“Well?” Lucifer asks. “Do you need instructions, Sammy?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Sam snaps, and reluctantly reaches up to Lucifer’s belt, trying to ignore how shaky his hands are. The clink of it unbuckling is somehow deafening, even with the music playing in the background. Sam is suddenly deeply glad he hadn’t made Lucifer turn it off after all; the very thought that somebody outside could potentially hear what was going on made him want to puke. 

“What would you rather then?” Lucifer asks, hand skating down to cradle the back of Sam’s head. The touch is soft, but Sam knows how quick that can and _will_ change. “Darling? Pet? Paramour?” 

“I’d rather you shut the fuck up.” The buttons on Lucifer’s trousers snap free and Sam pauses, hands frozen at Lucifer’s hips as the surrealism of this whole thing sinks nasty claws into him. 

It’s Lucifer. He knows it’s Lucifer. But it’s Castiel’s coat hanging from his shoulders, Castiel’s loosened belt, Castiel’s sharp hips beneath his palms. And, somewhere behind those familiar blue eyes, Castiel is hiding, backed into some shadowed corner; away from the driver’s seat, but not free from the oncoming car crash. 

For the first time in his life, Sam misses the Cage. At least he’d known what to expect there.

Abruptly, the hand behind his head tightens, yanking him forward so that Sam barely keeps himself upright. “Having second thoughts, are we?” Lucifer asks, voice pleasant. 

Sam licks his lips and doesn’t look up. He can’t stomach seeing Castiel’s face looking back at him right now. He breathes in deeply and slips his hands into the slack waistband of Lucifer’s pants, fingers hooking in his briefs, and drags them down just far enough that Sam can ease his half-hard cock free. 

Although Sam doesn’t exactly advertise it, he’d sucked a few dicks in his time. He’d never exactly been a solid zero on the Kinsey scale, and before he’d settled down with Jess, college had been the first time in his life where he’d been able to explore normal teenage things on his own terms. He doesn’t exactly consider himself an expert in the act, but it isn’t totally foreign to him either. 

His time in the Cage had taught him that it’s one thing to give a few shaky blowjobs at frat parties and another thing entirely to go down on Lucifer himself. What little knowledge he thought he’d gleaned on the topic was quickly flushed down the drain, and Sam had to start over from square one. 

Lucifer is cold to touch. All angels are, of course, but it’s something else with him. It’s disorientating to slick his thumb over the top of his dick and feel barely any heat at all - it had taken Sam a long time to get used to that, to realize that not even something as innately human as sex could give warmth to the frigid vacuum of space that angels are sculpted from. 

Again, Lucifer jerks at his hair and Sam barely manages to bite back a hiss he knows would only encourage him. A hand drops down to his cheek. Lucifer’s thumb skids over his lip again, pressing with intent. “Open up, Sammy.” 

There’s no point dragging this out; he knows exactly what Lucifer wants here, and what Lucifer wants, he gets. 

Sam licks his lips, keeps his gaze pointedly down, and opens his mouth. 

“Good boy. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” The fingers in his hair give a tug, pulling him forward, and Sam obligingly leans forward and closes his lips around Lucifer’s dick, holding it steady as he eases down as slowly as the hand guiding him will allow, which isn’t that slow at all. 

Above him, Lucifer gives a contented sigh. It sounds both exactly like and totally dissimilar to the thousand others he’d heard before. In Castiel’s voice, it sounds a thousand times more obscene than it ever had when Lucifer was wearing Nick. 

Sam has never really wondered what Castiel’s dick was like. Not intentionally, anyway. If asked, he would have said he was plenty content going the rest of his life without having any knowledge about it whatsoever. 

Now he can say this; it isn’t as big as Sam’s, but it isn’t exactly small either. It slides into his mouth smooth and easy, heavy on his tongue. When Lucifer shifts his hips, it hits all the way at the back of Sam’s throat, making his eyes water even as he tries and fails to pull away; hands falling to the sheets either side of Lucifer’s spread thighs just for something to hold onto. Lucifer pulls back, just enough that Sam can breathe, and then he thrusts forward again, hips lifting smoothly off the bed, and Sam, who hasn’t done this in so long he’s forgotten how, chokes. 

“What’s this?” Lucifer asks, using his grip on Sam’s jaw to draw back, cock slipping free from Sam’s slick lips. “You seem a little out of practice.” 

Sam coughs, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist and blinking back the tears in his eyes. “You were the one who wanted it.” 

“You can’t expect anybody to get off with you slobbering uselessly like that,” Lucifer says, knotting his fingers tight in Sam’s hair. “I thought you wanted this to be over quickly.” 

“I do.” 

“Then try harder,” Lucifer says, and shoves Sam back down. 

He’s better prepared this time. Muscle memory is a scary thing, and Sam relaxes into Lucifer’s hold, opening his mouth, tilting his head, squeezing his eyes shut as Lucifer fucks into his mouth without even giving him a moment to adjust; as brutal in this as he is in most other things. He drags Sam down further and further with each thrust, and it’s not long until Sam’s pressed right down, nose buried in the curls at the base of Lucifer’s dick. 

His chest is heaving, his head is spinning, and he barely remembers to breathe every time Lucifer pulls back. It’s a good thing that Lucifer never really expects active participation as far as this is concerned, because it’s all Sam can do to kneel on his sore knees and let the devil face fuck him until tears are streaming down his face. 

It goes on for… Sam doesn’t know how long. Long enough that his jaw begins to fucking ache with it, and he can feel Lucifer getting harder and harder in his mouth. The wet noise of it fills the room, and Sam can feel drool trickling down his chin, dripping to stain the collar of his shirt. 

Sam feels disgusting. It takes everything he has not to gag on Lucifer’s cock. And that’s not even the worst fucking thing. 

He’s hard as a rock in his jeans anyway. 

At the very least, Lucifer’s getting close, he can tell. The grip in Sam’s hair is punishing and the slap of Lucifer’s hips against his face is uncoordinated and rough. His breath is as even as ever, but the cock in Sam’s mouth jerks, leaking and smearing across his mouth every time it pulls out. 

Sam fists his hands atop his own thighs and thinks, _come, please fucking come, I’m begging you, come in my mouth, finish up already, please please please -_

Lucifer does not come. Abruptly, his hips still, pressing his cock right down Sam’s throat until he thinks he’s going to pass out, and then he draws back and out. Sam blinks back the blackness skating at the edge of his vision and coughs furiously, clinging shakily to Lucifer’s slacks as he tries not to be sick, one hand pressed to his raw throat as he rasps, “What are you doing?” 

“Well, we can’t have it end so soon, can we?” 

It takes Sam’s oxygen deprived brain a moment to parse that, and before it can truly manage, Lucifer has already dragged him to his feet, throwing him down on the bed casually as if Sam doesn’t have several inches and many pounds on him. Sam’s heart sinks, and he tries to scrabble backwards but Lucifer easily straddles him, pushing under Sam’s shirt with one hand using the other to support himself next to Sam’s head. 

“What? That wasn’t part of the -” 

“I was very clear about fucking you, I believe,” Lucifer says conversationally. His hand pops free a button on Sam’s shirt, and then another. “That’s hardly my fault if you thought getting on your knees was going to be a get out of jail free card. You should know I don’t accept those as valid currency.” 

Before Sam can say something, Lucifer grinds down, pushing his hard dick against where Sam is tenting his jeans, making him jolt. “Don’t,” he hisses, pushing uselessly at Lucifer’s chest. 

“Don’t what? Don’t fuck you?” Lucifer asks leaning backwards on his heels, granting Sam some space. “I mean, if you won’t hold up your end of the deal I’ve got no reason to hold up mine, but if that’s _really_ what you want…” 

Lucifer makes a show of pulling away, hands in the air, and Sam is momentarily seized by panic that he’s about to have rendered being face fucked on his knees absolutely meaningless. He reaches out, snagging his hands in the fine white of Castiel - of _Lucifer’s_ \- shirt, and holds him in place.

The expression Lucifer looks down at him with is immensely satisfied, but he doesn’t move an inch. “Is there something you’d like to say, Sam?” 

“I…” Sam snaps his mouth shut, flushing in anger and embarrassment. This had always been one of Lucifer’s favorite games - putting Sam in a position where he had to _ask_ for it, make it seem like it was something he _wanted._ “If you hold up your end of the deal, I’ll hold up mine.” 

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Lucifer says. “You’ll have to clarify, I’m afraid.” 

Sam wants to strangle him. The only thing stopping him is the fact that it wouldn’t be Lucifer he was really hurting, but one of his closest friends. God, he hopes Castiel isn’t watching this. 

“If you hold up your end of the deal,” Sam says as evenly as he can manage, “you can fuck me.” 

Lucifer cups a hand over his ear. “What was that last part?” 

Sam closes his eyes, but knows better than to pray for patience when the thing he’d be praying to is the one torturing him. “You can fuck me,” he says. Then, because he knows Lucifer is going to keep pushing, _“Fuck me.”_

Lucifer’s hand drops, fisting in Sam’s shirt, and he smiles at him; star-bright and horrifying. “There’s the Sammy I’ve missed,” he says, grabbing his jaw and leaning down to kiss him. 

There was a time where Sam used to try and stop him. There were no rules saying sex and kissing were exclusive, really, and the last thing in the world Sam wanted was to kiss the fucking devil. It hadn’t taken him long to realize it wasn’t worth the fight. 

If he let Lucifer kiss him, things always went easier. He was… not gentle, but not violent either. Some middle ground that would get most men arrested but felt like a mercy to Sam, who knew what it felt like to weather the true force of Lucifer’s wrath. 

Besides, Lucifer gets what Lucifer wants, and if Lucifer wants to kiss Sam, Sam’s not going to be able to stop him.

Lucifer kisses him as he strips Sam of both his shirts, kisses him as Sam kicks his boots free so they clatter to the floor, kisses him as Sam is stripped of his jeans, briefs, socks; keeps kissing him until Sam is naked and vulnerable on his own bed, stiff as a board as Lucifer’s hands roam up and down the wealth of his bare skin. 

“Relax,” Lucifer huffs as he finally pulls back, pressing his mouth to the rapid beating of Sam’s pulse. “Why so nervous?” 

“You know why,” Sam grits. He’s staring at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to watch as the devil wearing the body of his friend mouths down his throat, teeth grazing at his clavicle. 

Lucifer laughs. It is not a nice sound. His hands slip down Sam’s naked chest, familiar and possessive. “Anybody would think this was your first time with that kind of attitude, Sam.” 

“Would you just get on with it already?” 

“Always so impatient,” Lucifer sighs. His hands slip down further, brushing past Sam’s hips, his waist, making him tense, but they bypass his pelvis to come to a rest on his thighs. “I hope you’ve got something to make this easier on yourself or I’m going to have to get creative.” 

Sam shudders without meaning to. A creative Lucifer is not a pleasant experience for anybody involved, and he forces down the memories with practiced precision. He tosses an arm over his face so he won’t have to watch and says, “Bedside drawer.” 

He can feel Lucifer shifting on top of him, hears the creak of the bed. The music is still warbling in the background. A tube of lube drops in the sheets beside him and Lucifer laughs. “Half empty. Somebody’s been busy, huh?” 

Sam pulls his arm back so he can glare. “Would you shut up already?” 

“What’s the rush?” Lucifer asks pleasantly, twisting the cap off and wetting his fingertips. “You have somewhere to be that I don’t know about?” 

“Yeah, out there _saving the world.”_

Lucifer nudges his thighs apart pointedly, one hand smoothing down Sam’s knee and the other sinking between his legs. “Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?” 

“That’s not -” With absolutely no warning at all, Lucifer slips a chilly finger inside of him and Sam cuts himself off with a gasp, one hand flying out to clutch Lucifer’s sleeve and the other to grasp the sheets. “Would you give me some _warning?”_

“Why?” Lucifer asks, twisting his finger and making Sam wince. “I would have thought you knew what to expect by now.” 

“You try having somebody shove something up your ass and see how prepared _you_ feel,” Sam snaps. 

“Hmm,” Lucifer says, as if considering. “No.” 

He adds a second finger, barely giving Sam a moment to catch his breath. It hurts; of _course_ it fucking hurts. Sam’s never done this outside of the Cage, and his body struggles to adjust. But, to his irritation, it still somehow feels _good_ too. 

The years since Sam has been out of the Cage aren’t long enough to match the decades he spent in it - Lucifer still remembers how to bend Sam’s body to his will, how to move his fingers inside him, skating his other hand along the sensitive skin of Sam’s inner thigh in something that, if one didn’t know better, might be mistaken as reassurance. Lucifer leans down to sink his teeth softly into Sam’s bare shoulder, and Sam’s jerks beneath him, pressing back on the hand between his legs. 

The fingers inside him crook and for a moment Sam sees stars. 

“There it is,” Lucifer says, satisfied. 

“Stop it,” Sam chokes, but bites down on his tongue a moment later when Lucifer does it once more, merciless. 

It’s good, and Sam hates every second of it.

“How are we going down there, Sammy?” Lucifer says as he works Sam up to three fingers expertly. His free hand skates up Sam’s hip, grazing the base of his cock before bypassing it to press gently against the planes of his stomach where Sam can feel his skin growing sticky with leaking precome. Lucifer swipes his fingers casually through it, making him flush. “You’re sure putting on a show, aren’t you?” 

Sam doesn’t answer, closing his eyes and trying to keep his chest from heaving. Unfortunately, Lucifer’s never been discouraged by Sam’s silence before, and he doesn’t start now. 

“Maybe we should have left the door open,” he muses. “Make sure everybody else could get a look. I could charge for admission.” 

It’s probably an empty threat, but panic grips him anyway, and Sam gasps, “Don’t!” 

Lucifer huffs out a laugh, rubbing at Sam’s prostate hard enough to make him curse and squirm, punching uselessly at Lucifer’s chest to alleviate the intensity of it. His head is spinning, and he can feel how much his dick’s leaking all over himself from just this; Lucifer hasn’t even _touched_ him. 

It’s fucking humiliating.

“Don’t worry,” Lucifer says. “I think we’ve got all the company we need in here with the three of us.” 

Sam’s head is muddled enough that he makes the mistake of asking, “What?” 

“Oh,” Lucifer says, tone indulgent. “Did you forget Castiel was in here too? Or did you think that he wasn’t watching? Very optimistic of you, Sammy. Wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, honestly.” 

Fear spikes through him again, but before Sam can say anything Lucifer’s fingers pull free with an embarrassing sound. His slick hands grip Sam’s thighs, yanking him down the bed, spreading his legs open as he shuffles in between them. “I think that’s about enough of the pre-show entertainment.” 

“Wait -” 

Lucifer does not wait. He pushes inside in one smooth move; his cock breaching Sam seamlessly, splitting him open and pushing all the breath from his lungs at once. It’s all Sam can do to throw his head back against the thin pillows beneath him, clenching his jaw so hard it aches to stop any noises slipping out. 

_It’s fine,_ Sam coaches himself. _You’re fine. You’ve done this before. It’ll be over soon._

It doesn’t feel fine. _Sam_ doesn’t feel fine. He feels like he’s got the devil’s dick in him, and the pain of it is only matched by the uncomfortable pleasure still clawing at the livewires of his nerves. 

“Would you look at that,” Lucifer says, rocking into him. “You still take it like a bitch, don’t you?” 

“Fuck off,” Sam groans, trying and failing to force his body to adjust. Every time he thinks he gets his breath back, Lucifer ups his tempo and he loses it all over again. It’s all Sam can do to hold onto the sheets, arching off the bed as he tries not to push back against the hips slamming into him. 

“You always -” Lucifer gave a particularly rough thrust “- _complain_ so much, but the minute you’re on your back, you’re desperate for it.” 

“I’m _not,”_ Sam hisses, but the words lose their punch when he has to bite his tongue to stop a moan. His skin feels hot, snapped tight to his bones, every nerve ending positively alight. “Just because you can make me hard doesn’t mean I like it.” 

Lucifer smiles, deeply amused, and slips his hand down Sam’s chest to finally fist around his dick. It’s like being shot in the gut; Sam’s spine snaps straight, and his breath stutters to a halt. 

“I think we’re well past that by now, Sam,” Lucifer says, squeezing tight enough to make precome slip down his fingers. “Tell me, did fucking women ever get you this hard? This wet?” 

“Shut up!” Sam snaps again, even though he knows it’s useless. Lucifer has _always_ been chatty in bed, and Lucifer gets what Lucifer wants. 

Lucifer’s fingers slacken, pulling away, leaving Sam’s dick to slap back against his stomach. “Play coy all you want, but I’ve seen you come without even being touched. You get off on this like nothing else, don’t pretend that you don’t.” 

His hand slips up Sam’s chest again, crawling past his ribcage, the teeth marks he’d left in Sam’s clavicle, until his broad palm rests against his throat. Sam’s heart lurches, the feeling of it both familiar and foreign; Castiel’s fingers longer, his palm smaller, but the bitten edges of his fingernails the same. 

“What do you say, Sam?” Lucifer asks, leaning down to croon in his ear. “Think you can hold out for much longer? We can keep going as long as you like.” 

The hand on his throat squeezes; a promise and a threat. The blue of Castiel’s gaze mirrors Lucifer’s hunger and cruelty and Sam’s head spins as he looks up into it.

Sam sucks in a deep, shaky breath, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back in consent. 

Lucifer’s thrusts stutter against him, and when he speaks his voice is low and possessive. “That’s a good boy.” 

The hand on his throat tightens, thumb bruising against where Sam already feels raw and choked out. He doesn’t try to breathe past it, knows better than that, and feels the terrifying electricity of his airways closing on him. 

Lucifer is still moving against him, fucking into Sam as he squirms on the bed, hands reaching up to grip Lucifer’s wrists out of instinct, but his hold is like marble, icy and unshakable. Sam’s eyes are watering, and his head is spinning. His eyes flutter open and he sees Castiel - _Lucifer,_ he reminds himself - looking down at him, watching. 

Blackness creeps in. His head is on fire. He almost forgets he’s being fucked at all; the hand on his throat dominates him. 

“What are you waiting for?” Lucifer asks, leaning down so his cool breath fans against Sam’s sweaty cheek. “Come, Sam.” 

Sam’s mind is beyond him - pleasure is pain is pleasure, and he fights against the heavy body pressing him into the bed as his back arches and his orgasm hits like a freight train. 

He passes out. He really, really does. His bones feel like tissue paper, and his skin is alive with electric shocks. The cresting, consuming force of it washes over him for what feels like an eternity before it finally ebbs away and the world begins to seep back in. 

It takes a monumental effort, but Sam manages to peel his eyes open once more. He’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The hand on his throat is gone, and when he sucks in a shaky breath it hurts like a bitch. He can feel come trickling down from between his thighs, although he thinks he was already half unconscious by the time Lucifer came, because he doesn’t remember it at all. 

“How are you doing there, champ?” Lucifer asks in a cheery voice, and Sam turns his head over to look at him, exhausted. 

Lucifer is sitting on the edge of his bed, perfectly put together as if he hadn’t just fucked the soul out of Sam. His belt is buckled and his shirt is stainless. He has an immensely satisfied look on Castiel’s handsome face, and he eyes the wreck that was once Sam’s body up and down with an appreciative gaze. 

Sam hates him more than he can describe. 

Struggling, Sam manages to haul himself upright, back pressed against the head of the bed, digging into his naked, sore skin. He’s covered in come, both his own and Lucifer’s, and he can feel bruises flaring into life all over. 

His throat feels like he’s swallowed fucking gravel. 

“So?” Sam rasps. He wants to drag a sheet over his naked lap, but he’s too exhausted. Besides, it’s a bit late for modesty. “Are you happy now?” 

“What’s with that tone? Didn’t you have fun, Sam?” 

Sam shoots him a withering look. “Are you going to follow through on your end of the deal or not?” 

Lucifer makes a show of rolling his eyes, sighing as he gets to his feet, tucking his hands into Castiel’s coat. “You always find a way to ruin the afterglow, don’t you?” 

_“Lucifer.”_

“I don’t break deals,” Lucifer says. “I’ll talk to dad, don’t you worry.”

Sam’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good,” he says. “Get out of my fucking room.” 

“Testy, aren’t we? We could go again if you think it’d put you in a better mood.” 

_“Out,”_ Sam snarls. 

Lucifer grins and then, before Sam can react, he reaches out. Sam flinches, but Lucifer doesn’t make any attempt to grab him again. Instead, his fingertips trail lightly along Sam’s abused throat, touch deceptively soft when compared to the harsh palm choking him only moments ago. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Sam,” Lucifer says. 

His touch vanishes, and a moment later so does he. 

\--

Afterwards, Sam sits beside his brother and watches as Lucifer and God bicker like children, the perfect reflection of every broken family the world over. 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice the way Sam gingerly lowers himself onto the step, and he doesn’t seem to notice the way Sam can’t bring himself to look directly at Lucifer. When Sam had slunk out of his room, he’d clapped Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince, ecstatic and proud that Sam had managed to wrangle a truce out of the devil himself. 

Sam had barely been able to meet his smile. He kept his shirt buttoned high and hid his shaking hands in his pockets. 

Now, he watches the family meeting he’d used his body to bargain for stutter and stumble along and resolutely tells himself it’d been worth it, of course it had been worth it, and when Lucifer and Chuck come to some kind of agreement, he lets out a breath that has been going sour in his ribs for hours. 

Dean is a supernova in his relief, talking a mile a minute as he begins to plan their war. Sam stays quiet beside him and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t trust his voice. 

Beneath the high collar of his shirt the devil’s palm print bruised into his skin _burns._


End file.
